


Trial & Error

by phenylic (tascioni)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascioni/pseuds/phenylic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a lawyer; Eames is a scientist; Yusuf has shaky morals, and Saito only trusts himself to get the job done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial & Error

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the art that the wonderful Jenn drew, [here](http://lick-j.livejournal.com/1058879.html)!

It's a warm, late spring morning in Chicago, and Arthur sits inside the Starbucks on South Dearborn, sipping slowly at his Americano as Eames blows at his cup of oatmeal. The sun is bright outside as Arthur stares unseeingly ahead, lips curved downward, lost in thought. Eames eats his breakfast slowly, dividing his time between insuring his spoon went into his mouth and watching Arthur carefully.

Arthur, on the other hand, stares resolutely ahead. His mind is still reeling from the previous day’s court rulings, and while he shouldn’t exactly be talking about it, he needs to tell someone before he loses his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Arthur blinks, jerking involuntarily. He swallows down a gulp of coffee, wincing as the heat of it burns at his throat. “The Saito case,” he begins, and Eames stares. Arthur grimaces. A year ago, Mr. Saito of Proculus Global had been charged in the murder of his wife, Kyoko Saito. He had then, in good sense and responsible distribution of his wealth, used his one phone call for the best law firm in the city. Sterling, Rodriguez, and Banks, who had been undergoing minor financial crisis due to the economic crash, had been at the police station, retainer agreement in hand before anyone could say "arraignment". Specifically, Arthur had been there, having just been made a senior associate, all too eager to prove himself as a valuable, potential partner to the firm.

"How's he doing?" Eames asks, his tone too casual. Arthur pretends not to notice.

"Splendid," Arthur says. "I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm not."

"Ah," says Eames. "Well, he does seem like the type who'd get along just fine there, doesn't he?"

"Sure," Arthur replies. "Anyway, I--"

"Appealed, and you won," Eames finishes. He sets aside his finished oatmeal and grins. “Figured you had some good news. You have that look on your face.”

Arthur bites back a smile. “Wow,” he says. “Couldn’t even let me enjoy that, just for a minute?”

Eames dismisses that with a wave of his hand. "You don't keep me around to let you enjoy things," he says, ever gracious.

"That's very true," Arthur concedes.

"Also," says Eames. "It was on the news."

"Oh," says Arthur. "I knew you weren't psychic."

"I'm a scientist," says Eames. "That's close enough."

Arthur laughs.

“So how long is this going to take?” Eames asks. “Another six months?”

“God, I hope not,” Arthur exhales. “The judge is pushing for a quick trial. The bail hearing’s later today.”

“Hm,” says Eames. “Going to make it home any time soon?”

“I’ll try,” says Arthur, which is something he says a lot to Eames.

“Fair enough, I suppose,” says Eames. “Well then, good luck, have a good day, etcetera,” he adds, gathering up his trash and giving Arthur a quick peck on the cheek and his shoulder a small squeeze. Arthur leans into it, allowing Eames to brush his fingers against Arthur’s neck where a short gold chain hides underneath the collar of Arthur’s shirt, a small but significant weight dangling at the end of it.

“You too,” says Arthur, bracing himself for the rest of the day.

 

 

 **THE NEW YORK TIMES**  
MONEY CAN BUY YOU FREEDOM: CORPORATE MOGUL SAITO TO BE RE-TRIED.  
by Rosalinda Santana

 

> Just four months into his life sentence, Mr. Saito, ex-CEO of Proculus Global, previously convicted of murdering his wife, has been granted a re-trial. His lawyer, Arthur Sinclair of Sterling, Rodriguez & Banks, has confirmed that they will once again be submitting a plea of “Not guilty,” on the grounds that the prosecution withheld evidence. “Mr. Saito loved Kyoko very much,” said Sinclair. “They were happily married for almost six years. Anyone who knew them can tell you that he would never hurt her.” The State’s Attorney stated that the actions of the prosecution were not intentionally malicious; “The man who handled the case was a recent graduate, and he may have been a little overzealous in ruling out relevant information, but I can assure you that there was no intention of withholding evidence.” When asked about Mr. Saito’s innocence, the State Attorney answered, “Should he be found not guilty, then he is not guilty by the court of law...

 

 

Arthur lays the paper down on his desk, frowning. At 10:02 am, this is already too much to think about. He takes a sip of his nearly depleted Americano and frowns harder. Saito is an important client (and more importantly, wealthy), but this case is...complicated, to say the least. At thirty-two, Arthur is supposed to be ready to kill for a chance like this, but all he can think about is how much time and effort he had poured into the first trial and how disastrous it has turned out for him. It wasn’t entirely his fault, Arthur knows that, but the stress of not only being involved in a high-profile case, but also being first chair of said high-profile case, did things to Arthur. Sweaty palms and high blood pressure sort of things.

Arthur panics silently. He has long since perfected the art of keeping his expression perfectly blank and unreadable while his heart pounds away furiously, nearly tachycardic. The day of the verdict had not been a good day for him. The whole trial had just been one curveball after another from the prosecution, and Arthur had felt his edges fraying just a little more every time the D.A. jabbed a little more enthusiastically at the showcase of evidence. Somehow, though, Arthur had managed to push through, to talk calmly but firmly as he addressed witness after witness after expert after detective.

He had known he couldn’t win. One look at the jury during closing arguments had cemented that. He hadn’t managed to connect with the jury, and he was pretty sure Saito’s vague not-answers on the stand hadn’t earned them any favors. He knew well before the forewoman declared, “On the count of murder in the first degree, we the jury find Mr. Saito, guilty,” knew well before the officers came and led Saito away in handcuffs.

And Arthur had stood there, quietly collecting his things as Starsyov, his second chair, shot him a pitying glance. Saito had looked at them, and said, “Thank you for your efforts.”

Saito had been taken to a federal prison. Arthur had gone home and gotten blindingly, mind-numbingly drunk. He’d gone to work the next day with a killer hangover. He got paid, but didn’t get a bonus. He worked on other cases, different cases, cases involving divorce, or civil rights violations, or wrongful termination. He’d gone to Saito’s sentencing of course and presented letters asking for mercy, and even brought in character witnesses, but he knew there was little hope of receiving leniency in a first-degree murder conviction, not when you were a man like a Saito with global prestige and a wife like Kyoko who was young and beautiful and a mother of two. There only two ways these cases ever went--either the accused got the maximum sentence, or they got away scot-free.

Saito got the max. Life without parole.

And yet, here they are, four months later with a second chance, and Arthur has no idea what to do with it. So he takes another sip of his coffee and scowls at the box of files related to Kyoko Saito’s case. He would have much preferred a mistrial, to have everything completely thrown out, instead of this retrial. He hates retrials. He hates how hopeful they feel, like maybe-- _maybe_ \--they could win this, maybe the judge would favor them more, maybe the jury would be more sympathetic, maybe the prosecution would suddenly keel over and die.

Arthur hates maybes. Arthur hates the way U.S. legal procedures work. Arthur hates Eames for being good at his job and Cobb for being relentless. Arthur hates a lot of things.

He glares at his now empty coffee cup, then jabs at the intercom to ask his secretary to bring him a fresh brew.

 

↔

 

“We need to go over the witness testimony,” Arthur says as Yusuf strolls in, herbal tea in hand.

“Okay,” says Yusuf mildly, taking a seat in front of Arthur’s desk. “Which parts exactly?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “All of it,” he says.

“Oh,” says Yusuf, taking a swig of tea. “I guess we best get started.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, already pulling up the case notes on his tablet while Yusuf sets down his cup and proceeds to pull out several thick folders.

“Okay,” Arthur nods as Yusuf lays out the crime scene photos. “Maid comes in around 9 AM and finds Kyoko in the middle of the kitchen.”

“Dead in her own blood,” Yusuf supplies. “She checks for a pulse but doesn’t find one. She’s been stabbed 3 times, concentrated on her torso. She calls 911, and paramedics arrive 20 minutes later and officially declare her DOA. Then come the police.”

“They question her and then Saito,” continues Arthur. “Saito says he’s a heavy sleeper and only woke up when the maid screamed. He says didn’t go anywhere else in the house--not that it matters, since he lives there. Whatever they did or didn’t find, they can’t use it because it’s too circumstantial--so the police ask him about possible motive, enemies, etc., but Saito says there aren’t any.”

Yusuf shakes his head. “There is always motive,” he says. “We just haven’t found definitive proof of it yet.”

“Can you check that again?” asks Arthur.

Yusuf shrugs. “People have had some time to think about it. Maybe they’ll have remembered something.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees. “Where’s the M.E. re--oh, thank you. So, the M.E. declares it a homicide, and of course, first person LAPD looks into is Saito.”

“Which you argued was biased.”

“And didn’t work. Not that it ever will,” Arthur mutters, still rather embarrassed by that pitiful attempt. “Right,” he says as he taps out a note. “Definitely won’t be trying that again.”

Yusuf smirks. “Right,” he agrees and gets to work.

 

 

 **DVORAK.ORG**  
SAITO TO STAND RE-TRIAL  
by Parker Cordova

 

> Mr. Saito, founder of Proculus Global, was found guilty for the murder of his wife, Kyoko Saito, last June. He was sentenced to life without parole, but recent discoveries may change that. “Pitted” evidence from the case, or “damn, those CSI people brought in too much shit. Let’s throw some out,” is being called into question. Saito’s lawyer, Arthur Sinclair, successfully won his motion for a re-trial last Thursday, claiming that the LAPD deliberately threw out key evidence under the guise of pitting it. Let’s hope this time Mr. Sinclair can keep his facts straight and his argue on the right side. The D.A. seemed pretty cool about it, saying: “We won because Saito is guilty, pitted evidence or not. We won this once. We’ll win it again.” Careful now, hotshot. Never underestimate a lawyer with a fat paycheck and some seriously wounded pride.

 

 

“I already told you,” the lab tech, Nash, says with a scowl. “I disregarded it because it wasn’t important.”

“And how do you know that?” presses Arthur.

Nash raises an eyebrow. “Because I know how to do my job,” he says.

“I know,” says Arthur, backtracking quickly. “And I’m asking you, from your experience, if you knew of any cases where relevant and irrelevant weren’t so easily distinguishable.”

“You mean like every damn case I get?” sneers Nash. “Do you know how many cases I have to process every day, Mr. Sinclair? Because let me tell you--it’s a lot. Unlike you, a high-profile case does not get me a bonus, and I have treated, am treating, and will treat it like any other case. That means I will keep the bullets, the blood, the gunshot residue and the partial prints, and I will throw the day-old trash, the Sunday Times, and Mr. Saito’s entire bookshelf. Is that distinguishable enough for you?”

“Very much so, Mr. Nash,” Arthur answers wisely. No point in provoking Nash when he could be instrumental to the case. “Thank you. This has been extremely enlightening.”

“Mr. Sinclair,” calls Nash. “You are the reason I am on probation. I don’t know what kind of fishing expedition you’re on, but I hope you find something and fucking choke on it. The evidence against Saito is as good as a confession, and you can use all the pitted evidence you want, but you won’t find a thing.”

Arthur inclines his head. “If you say so,” he says and leaves quickly.

Back at the office, Arthur can’t help wondering if perhaps everyone is right. He and Yusuf have walked through the entire case, but even with the additional “evidence”--used tissues, old newspapers, leftovers, and other everyday trash--every finger still points to Saito. Arthur had been so sure that he’d be able to prove otherwise, and now, he has nothing. His reputation, already shaky, can’t suffer any more. Sterling, Rodriguez & Banks would fire him--not for losing the case, but for losing it twice.

Arthur can’t let that happen; he won’t.

A sharp knock on his door shakes Arthur out of his thoughts. Yusuf stands in front of him, eyebrows raised. “Bail hearing in half an hour,” Yusuf reminds him. “You ready?”

“Yeah--I have--yeah, I’m ready,” Arthur replies, standing up quickly and gathering his things. “Find anything?” he asks, managing to keep the desperation of his voice.

“No,” says Yusuf. “I’ll keep looking though.”

“Okay,” says Arthur. “Do that.”

Yusuf gives him a funny look. “Are you alright?” he asks. “You look a little nervous.”

“Do I,” Arthur says flatly. “Do I really.”

“It’s just a bail hearing,” Yusuf says. “You’ve done plenty of them before.”

“I know,” Arthur mutters, snapping his briefcase shut. He tugs at the sleeves of his suit jacket and picks at imaginary lint. _This isn’t just a bail hearing,_ he wants to argue. It’s never _just_ a bail hearing.

Possibly sensing Arthur’s distress, Yusuf quickly declares that he’s off to “poke some holes and see if something will pop.”

Arthur only nods and closes his eyes, doing a quick run-through of his arguments and exhaling slowly, calmly. Just a bail hearing, he tells himself and heads out.

 

↔

 

Arthur meets Saito in the courtroom where he sits in his best suit, albeit handcuffed. “Mr. Sinclair,” Saito says respectfully. “I wish I could say it is good to see you again.”

“Mr. Saito,” says Arthur. “I promise after this, you can go to any of your private islands and never see me again.”

Saito gives him the smallest of smiles. Though encouraging, Arthur still feels like shit. If he’d only been able to do his job right the first time around, he wouldn’t have to be here right now, making awkward small talk with his client, fighting a life term in prison.

Arthur is not looking forward to this. Whatever confidence he had walked away with at the retrial motion hearing had been lost somewhere between the conversation with Nash and the disappointing lack of leads. The look on Dom Cobb’s stupid smug face doesn’t help much, either.

“Arthur.” Cobb greets him with a curt nod. “Still fighting a losing battle?”

“Cobb,” Arthur returns. “Still fighting for corrupt justice?”

Cobb smiles thinly, and Arthur does the same.

“The chances of you winning a retrial are worse than a regular case,” says Cobb.

“I know,” says Arthur, straightening to his full height, hoping to hold some kind of intimidation. “I’ll take the risk.”

Cobb grins unexpectedly at that. “You should be working for us, Arthur,” he says. “You’d make a great prosecutor.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Arthur replies swiftly and gives himself a mental pat on the back for not getting rattled.

“Only the good ones,” Cobb smirks.

They quiet as Judge Wagner enters, both straightening respectfully before the judge waves at them to sit.

“And here we are,” says the judge. “Let’s avoid dragging this out any longer than it needs to be. I’ll hear the prosecution.”

“We ask for remand, your Honor,” Cobb says, standing and buttoning his suit. “The defendant has a wealth of resources and is therefore a flight risk.”

Arthur stands up quickly to argue, but Judge Wagner holds up a hand to silence Arthur before he can even begin. “I know how this goes,” says the judge. “Will you turn over your passport, Mr. Saito?”

Saito blinks, as does Arthur, both of them perplexed. Saito leans forward in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, your Honor?” he asks.

“Your passport, Mr. Saito,” repeats the judge. “Will you turn it over if I asked you to?”

“Yes,” Saito answers slowly, wary.

“Alright, then,” says Judge Wagner. “And if I make you promise not to flee the country through illegal means?”

“I make the promise that I will not flee the country through illegal means,” echoes Saito with a frown.

“Good,” says Judge Wagner, pleased. “Bail is set at $500,000.” He bangs the gavel. “Have a wonderful day, gentlemen.”

Silence follows his departure.

Arthur stares after him, mouth open. Even Saito looks slightly stunned. Then, slowly, Cobb begins to pack his things, and Arthur quickly follows suit. Saito clears his throat, and when Arthur looks over, he says, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” says Arthur, still somewhat dazed as an officer comes to lead Saito away. “That’s my job.” He turns to Cobb. “Want to talk plea deal?”

Cobb snorts. “I don’t make deals with murderers, Arthur. Not when they’ve already been found guilty.”

Arthur pushes his chair in and says, “You know where to find me.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” says Cobb.

 

 

 **THE LOS ANGELES TIMES**  
SAITO RELEASED ON BAIL  
by Lisa Chang

 

> In an unexpected turn of events, corporate mogul and current convict Saito, of Proculus Global Enterprises, was released on $500,000 bail this morning, after agreeing to hand over his passport to the authorities. This marks the start of his retrial in the murder of his wife, the late Kyoko Saito, who was found stabbed to death last year in the couple’s Barrington Hills home. “We are very pleased with the outcome of today’s hearing,” said Arthur Sinclair, the head of Saito’s defense team. “We hope that it will set a precedence for the rest of the trial.”

> While Saito’s team remains hopeful, the prosecution has very different feelings. “The judge made his decision,” said Dominick Cobb, the district attorney assigned to the case and responsible for the previous guilty verdict. “As long as the state doesn’t have to waste time tracking Saito down, I am in no position to argue this ruling.”

> The court is scheduled to reconvene in two weeks to hold jury selection.

 

"Wow," says Yusuf, peering at Arthur over his tea. "You actually got him off."

"I know," says Arthur dryly. "Calm yourself."

“I’m impressed,” Yusuf says, grinning. “This is good; this is really good. Why aren’t you happy? This is good! We should be celebrating. Why aren’t you smiling, you prick--”

He falls silent at the look on Arthur’s face. “Oh god,” he groans. “Did they revoke bail already?”

Arthur scowls. “No,” he says. "That's the problem."

“Problem,” repeats Yusuf. “Really, Arthur? Why isn’t it ever ‘My Georgetown education paid off’? or ‘My talents are unmatched’?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Because it’s not true?” he points out. “It was too easy. You were there; Wagner just gave it to us.”

Yusuf sighs. “Is that really so bad, Arthur?” he asks. “Wagner likes you. He’s always liked you; and, as much as he hates the State’s Attorney, he hates when the State fucks up even more.”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Arthur. “Don’t fucking try to sell me on this, Yusuf. I know and you know it wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“I suppose,” Yusuf hums noncommittally. “What do you want to do then?”

Arthur scowls. “What can I do?” he says. “I gotta see Eames.”

“Mm,” says Yusuf, face carefully blank. “Eames.”

Arthur scowls once more, for good measure.

 

 **ONTD_POLITICAL**  
by kafkan

 

> Hey ONTD! Our favorite lawyer is back in the spotlight. Arthur Sinclair was spotted sneaking off to a certain weapons expert’s home. They are so adorable. It’s like they think their love is actually a secret.

> ( [XOXO BELOW THE CUT...](http://lolhereisafakecut) )

>   
> 
> 
> [ _Source._ ](http://i.imgur.com/JEAK6.jpg)
> 
>   
> 

 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” mutters Arthur when Yusuf shows him the post with a terribly hidden smirk. “We just got here!”

“There’s commentary,” Yusuf informs him, and Arthur closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing through his nose.

“No need for dramatics,” says Yusuf. “It’s unbecoming.”

“How did I get here,” Arthur mumbles as he drags a hand across his face.

“Car,” supplies Yusuf.

“What am I doing with my life,” groans Arthur.

“Ruining everyone else’s?”

“I should’ve been a doctor,” Arthur says. “Or a pharmacist. Why am I not a pharmacist? My mother’s a pharmacist. Why didn’t I listen to her?”

“Because you’re a lawyer,” Yusuf says patiently. “You don’t listen to anyone. It’s part of your job description.”

There’s a tap on Arthur’s window, and both of them look up.

“Generally,” calls a muffled voice. “You have to get out of the car to come inside. No exceptions, not even for you, Arthur, dearest.”

Yusuf grins, wolfish. “Eames,” he greets.

Eames winks.

“Jesus Christ,” says Arthur under his breath.

Eames, to his credit, offers Arthur a sympathetic smile.

 

 

 **E! NEWS**  
THE SCIENCE OF MURDER  
by Jim Kahn.

 

> While the star of the Saito case may be the charismatic but demur Arthur Sinclair, the outcome of the case relies almost completely on one Mr. Eames, who is one of the most well-known and highly respected weapons expert in America. It was his testimony that cinched the win for the prosecution in December last year, and yet an inside source has revealed that Eames has been in touch with Sinclair with regards to the retrial. “It’s quite possible that Eames is re-evaluating his testimony due to the release of the new evidence,” our source told us. “Anything could happen at this point.”

>   
> 
> 
> _Watch E!News with Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic tonight at 7 and 11 pm for more details._

 

 

“So you see our problem,” Arthur says, arms folded, inspecting Eames’ mock crime scene. “There’s no way of proving he didn’t actually do it.”

“Hm,” says Eames, expression unreadable. “I think your bigger problem is that there are more than a few ways to prove that he did.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, uncomfortable. “That’s why we’re here.”

Eames smiles, almost fond. “Is that all?” he says. “I wouldn’t ever have guessed.”

“Yes,” pipes up Yusuf, bored as ever. “Those people camped out on your front lawn, I’m sure they weren’t a dead giveaway.”

Eames shrugs, though Arthur can see him eyeing the curtains on his windows warily. “Comes with the territory, I suppose,” he says, eyes flickering back to his guests. “It’s a high-profile case with handsome, ambitious lawyers and overly successful billionaires. The world’s eating it up.”

Arthur grimaces. Eames was right. Saito wasn’t exactly young, but he was well-known; Cobb had textbook movie star looks, and Arthur--well, Arthur considered himself an 8 on a good day, but the important thing was he was younger and more relatable than his senior partners. During the original trial, he’d been painted as this naive, recent graduate, going up against the much more experienced Dom Cobb. He had been the underdog, and America loved underdogs, so Arthur had went with it, had thought maybe he could use it to his advantage. (He’d tried. It hadn’t worked, but he’d tried. When they’d polled the jury, the results had come out 7-5. It didn’t seem like much, as it was still a loss, but there was hope; there was a chance.)

“The world would eat it up if you told them to,” remarks Arthur wryly.

Eames’ smile is sympathetic. “And I’ll tell you as I’ve told you before, bring me the evidence.”

“You’ve seen the evidence.”

“Not the new ones.”

“Why don’t you steal them as you usually do?”

“I would have,” says Eames, grinning. “But you left your things in your car.”

“So break in,” challenges Arthur. “You’ve done it before.”

“You’re making me out to be a criminal.”

Arthur makes a noise, something of an aborted snort. “You are a criminal.”

“No,” says Eames. “I was suspected, once, never charged.”

“Same difference.”

“Arthur,” tsks Eames. “You’re slandering me.”

“And?” Arthur says smoothly. “Would you like to sue?”

“Wow,” Yusuf cuts in loudly. “Look at the time, Arthur, don’t you want to be heading back? Surely you want to head back. You said you wanted to avoid traffic.”

They both look at him, as if surprised to see him there. “Right,” says Eames.

“Yeah,” mutters Arthur, digging around his pockets for his keys. “Yusuf, could you get the--”

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees without waiting to hear what exactly.

Eames follows them out to the driveway, wincing a little as the flash of a camera goes off a couple yards away. Yusuf helps Arthur pull out a large blue bin from the trunk of the car, passing it off to Eames.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Arthur tells him as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Is five okay?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” says Eames. “Maybe I have plans.”

Yusuf rolls his eyes as he clicks in his seatbelt, but Arthur just stares at him levelly.

Eames smirks and leans forward, resting his forearm above Arthur’s window. “Yes, darling,” he says. “Five is perfect. Don’t forget the milk.”

Arthur resolutely does not say a thing for the rest of the drive. Yusuf spends it staring out the window and wondering if it’s still too early to retire.

 

 

** TMZ.COM **

SAITO SPOTTED WITH LEGAL TEAM

 

> We caught Saito out wining and dining last night over at Alinea with his legal team. Discussing major felonies over a bottle of Pinot? Totally classy.

 

 

“I’m going to go see Eames,” says Arthur, when Yusuf ducks into his office. “Are you--”

“Sorry,” Yusuf says with a shrug. “I’ve got a chat with some friends.”

Arthur smirks. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Yusuf says. “My mother raised me better than that.”

“Let’s stop by the morgue later,” Arthur says with a shake of his head.

“Funny,” says Yusuf. “I was just about to suggest that. How’s seven sound?”

“Not as good as 7:30,” says Arthur.

“Okay,” agrees Yusuf amiably. “I’ll meet you downtown at 7:30.”

They make their way to the parking garage together before Yusuf heads down to the police station to chat up some contacts, and Arthur makes his way across town to Eames’ house. He takes several detours, just in case, and parks a few blocks away before cutting across more than one backyard to stand in front of Eames’ back door.

Eames opens up like he’s been expecting it, and Arthur can’t help a small smile.

“Hi,” he says, stepping inside.

“Hello yourself,” Eames replies easily, leading the way into the living room. “You left me with quite a bit of work.”

Arthur gives a little shrug. “It was only a box.”

“Ha,” says Eames. “And it’s only ever just a bullet.”

Arthur’s smile tightens. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing that would change my opinion,” Eames says honestly. “Contrary to popular belief, trash does not affect the physics of a stabbing. Not in this case, anyway.”

Arthur lets out a breath. He can’t say he wasn’t expecting it, but the sting is still there. “And there isn’t anything that would make you doubt that?” he presses.

Eames just looks at him, and Arthur lets out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, that’s great,” he mutters.

“Why do you think he isn’t guilty?” asks Eames.

Arthur shakes his head and presses his hands to his face. For a moment, it’s just him and Eames. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I really--I don’t know--I just thought...” He trails off, eyes fixed on the evidence box.

“Well then, I don’t know what to tell you,” Eames says, frowning. “I can’t help you if you don’t even have somewhere for me to start from.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He looks down at his hands and studies the creases in his palms. “I don’t know,” he says again with a low sigh. “What if he did do it? What if he did kill his wife? Jesus Christ, I’ve defended my share of murders, pre-meditated or otherwise, but God, something just isn’t _right_ here.”

At first, Eames says nothing. He stares off in the direction of the kitchen, but his gaze is unfocused, thinking. “It’s not my position to answer this,” he says eventually. “And even if I could I wouldn’t. What you do or don’t you, who you protect or don’t, has nothing to do with me, nor do I want to have anything to do with it.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply but Eames silences him with a glance. “Despite what you, or the D.A. may think, Arthur, I’m not invested in these cases. I’ve been hired as an expert witness and the most that I can, and will, do is give the jury my expert opinion. I’m paid, regardless of outcome, so I, obviously, have nothing to lose.

“Cobb needs as many wins as possible if he ever even wants a chance at running for States Attorney, and you need as many wins as possible to gain clients. On the one hand, Cobb’s probably juggling about six cases right now. You probably have more on the line. For one, you’ve got your firm’s reputations at stake; and for another, you’ve also got your own since, if you lose, considering how high profile this case is, you’ll not only be painted as the man who tried to defend a wife-killer, but also an incompetent lawyer.”

“Okay,” bites out Arthur. “Thanks for the lecture. Now get to the point.”

Eames smirks. “That’s your problem, Arthur, dear,” he sighs. “Always in a rush. You’re going to lose things if you don’t stop and take a look.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll miss them, but that’s what the logs are for. I can always review them again. Yusuf can, too. We won’t miss them forever.”

Eames smiles at him beatifically.”Alright,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“Stop circling,” Arthur tells him. “if you’ve got something to tell me, spit it out already.”

Eames held up his hands in defeat. “Calm down,” he says. “I’m only saying that if you’re just taking his case because you feel obligated to, maybe you should let someone else take it.”

Arthur furrows his brows, annoyed. “I can handle it,” he says. “I don’t need someone else to take it.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” says Eames placatingly. “I’m just saying that you should be taking Saito’s case because you feel that he’s innocent, or that he had an unfair trial. Or,” he adds warily. “If you think you didn’t defend him to the best of your abilities the last time around.

“Cobb is charismatic, sure, but your strengths lie in your ability to project your convictions; sometimes, you forget that. You’re a fantastic lawyer,” Eames adds with a small smile. “Besides, look at what you’ve accomplished. You put together a class-action against Pfizer and won, when you were just a third-year associate. You’re probably responsible for over half of the DA’s losses. Gossip sites talk about you. You’re unstoppable.”

Arthur rubs at his face. “What the fuck,” he says. “I didn’t ask for a motivational speech.”

Eames grins ruefully. “I miss you,” he says, and Arthur shoots him a look. “I’m serious.”

“I’m right here,” Arthur points out, but he knows that’s not what Eames is saying.

“Not as much as you used to be. Not as much as you _should_ be.”

“Because the fucking press--”

“No, Arthur,” Eames cuts in sharply. “I’m not talking about this case; I’m talking about you, in general, just aren’t as available as you used to be.”

Arthur stares at him. “That’s a shit line,” he says, and he means for it to be come off as a joke, but the way Eames looks at him, and the way the air around them stills makes it sound rude and crass, and Arthur kind of hates himself a little bit for it.

Eames, however, ignores it. “Do you even like your job?” he asks.

“Yes!” says Arthur fiercely, because he does; he really does. He loves being a lawyer, even if it’s means giving up a lot for himself, for others, and asking others to give up a lot for him. He loves fighting for things he believes in, for upholding the principle of innocent until proven guilty, for basic rights and for upholding the Constitution.

He tells Eames this, because he’s always told Eames everything, and for some reason, it’s crucial that Eames understand how much he loves his job, even if he sometimes hates what he has to do. “And sometimes,” he says. “The law is wrong. Sometimes, people are wrong, and it’s up to me to prove that. I’m the one who has to go up to a jury and say, ‘Sure, maybe he did kill his wife, but you don’t have enough evidence to prove it. And if there isn’t enough evidence, it’s your duty as a citizen of the United States and as a fucking moral being not to condemn him to a life of imprisonment, because even suspected criminals still have rights, and if it was you on trial today, you’d want the same thing, wouldn’t you?’”

He takes a breath. “Wouldn’t you?” he asks again.

Eames simply looks at him, and Arthur is suddenly very much aware of the flush in his cheeks, of the quickness of his breath, but he is also aware of the desire that’s aching in his chest, the drive, and the passion for his work. He realizes, that that’s what he’s been missing.

“I have to believe him,” he tells Eames, and it’s not a question. “I have to believe that he deserves a chance.”

Eames’ lips twitch. “I don’t agree, necessarily, but alright.”

Arthur lets himself look at Eames, memorize the way Eames is lounging on his couch with his legs propped up on the coffee table, hands folded neatly across his chest. He’s wearing the pinstriped shirt Arthur gave him for his birthday, and he looks as though he hasn’t washed his hair in three days, though that could just be from the weird oil product Eames insists on using whenever he gets the chance. The ever-present smile that plays on the curve of Eames’ lips.

“I miss you,” Arthur says, surprised. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you for something that wasn’t work-related.”

“February, last year, after that whole Fischer emancipation fiasco,” Eames answers swiftly, and Arthur laughs.

“God, that was a disaster. Remember how Robert just broke down and started sobbing in court, and his father was yelling at him about how he couldn’t be his own man?”

“And Browning kept insisting that that was just how Fischer Sr. showed affection?”

“That was so mortifying,” chuckles Arthur. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a courtroom that chaotic.”

Eames grins at him, and Arthur lets himself grin back.

 

 

 **XOXO**  
SCORNED LOVERS

 

> Never date a lawyer, Daddy always said.

> An anonymous source revealed that Arthur Sinclair doesn’t do “dating”. “I think it stems a lot from his childhood,” said our source. “[His parents’] divorce really damaged his psyche.”

> When pressed, our source added, “It really is a shame. He and Eames had something great going for them, but Arthur’s Arthur, and he won’t commit. They even have a house together, but Arthur has a separate lease on an apartment downtown. It’s really quite sad, on some deep Freudian level.”

 

 

The thing about Ariadne is that Arthur actually has a sneaking suspicion she’s either a court clerk or an intern at the State’s Attorney’s office because there’s no way this innocuous little voice on the internet should not be this privy to the lives of the hundreds of lawyers frequenting the streets of Chicago.

Arthur makes a face at his computer as he picks up his phone. He takes one look at the caller ID and has to bite back a laugh. “I thought you ran that other site?” he says, dismissing all pretense of greeting. “GossipLaw or--”

“CoffeeLaw,” Ariadne corrects. “And I do. XOXO just asked me to be a guest blogger.”

Arthur grimaces. He can’t believe that that a blog dedicated to gossip about the city’s lawyers exists, much less having such things exist in multiplicate. He hasn’t quite decided whether he wants to strangle Ariadne or himself.

“Hey!” she laughs when he tells her his dilemma. “I did you a favor.”

“You turned me into some kind of sexual deviant,” he deadpans.

“I never said that,” she retorts. “I only implied it. Besides, Eames will love it.”

Oh God, thinks Arthur, clamping a hand over his eyes, so as better not to face the world with. Eames totally would.

“He totally would,” says Arthur. “Wait a minute. Did you come up with this together?”

“No?” answers Ariadne.

“Oh, God,” says Arthur. “Really?”

“No?” Ariadne tries again.

“Oh, God,” says Arthur. “This is terrible.”

Yusuf chooses that moment to poke his head in and wave a copy of the atrocious gossip rag in Arthur’s face. “This is great!” he mouths at Arthur.

“I’m going to kill you,” Arthur decides.

“Okay,” says Ariadne. “Bye.” and she hangs up before Arthur can.

“You know,” Arthur says, turning his full attention onto Yusuf, who grins like a maniac. “They never told me this would happen in law school.”

“You should sue,” Yusuf says. “Place the fear of God in their heathen hearts.”

“Ha,” says Arthur. “If only.”

 

↔

 

“I’m tired of being your secret,” Eames says immediately.

“Wow,” says Arthur, balancing his phone on his shoulder as he rifles through his court documents. “Really?”

“My mother says I could do better,” presses Eames. “She says I am no one’s dirty little secret.”

“That’s not what she said last night.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” says Eames, in the same tone that Arthur would use when talking about baby slugs, should he ever encounter baby slugs.

“Yeah,” says Arthur, leaning back in his chair. “She said that, too.”

“You’re disgusting,” Eames informs him. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“Okay,” says Arthur. “Understandable.”

“Are you listening?” asks Eames. “I want nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing,” repeats Arthur. “Got it.”

“Okay,” says Eames. “I’m just checking.”

“I got it,” he promises. “Really.”

“Okay,” says Eames, sounding relieved. “Good.”

 

 

 **THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE**  
SAITO’S RETRIAL TODAY  
by L. S. Tascioni

 

> The highly anticipated retrial of the century officially began today. Mr. Saito arrived to the courthouse promptly at 7:55 AM and was seen deep in discussion with his defense team. The judge approved a motion by the prosecution to ban live media coverage. In a surprising twist, the judge also approved a motion by the defense, deigning the DNA evidence collected by the police as inadmissible.

> In the last trial, the DNA evidence was what locked in the “guilty” verdict for Mr. Saito. However, it seems that the prosecution expected this. “It’s unfortunate that semantics are a deciding factor in a murder trial,” said Dominick Cobb, the district attorney. “But I am confident in the evidence that is still admissible. It will show Mr. Saito’s guilt. Everything about the crime scene shows Mr. Saito’s guilt.”

> The prosecution call their first witness to the stand tomorrow.

 

 

Arthur is still a little bit shell-shocked when he walks into the courthouse the next morning. Yesterday’s events play over in his head, and he just can’t quite believe that he’d managed the motion to suppress the DNA. Judge Wagner doesn’t suppress DNA. He loves DNA. His daughter is a fucking geneticist.

And today. Today is the deciding factor. If he can get Eames’ testimony thrown out, he’s won. The trick, then, is to do it without Cobb catching on too soon.

He’s actually not too sure how he’ll manage that because, well, it’s Cobb, and for all his unnerving intensity, Cobb is a very effective lawyer. Also, it’s not like his and Eames’ relationship is a huge secret. Any move Arthur makes, unless he treads very carefully, could land Eames in jail, or at least stuck with a hefty fine. Not to mention what may happen to Arthur and his license. As often as he’s had to bend the rules, he’s never bent them this far, and while creative interpretations of the law have always been encouraged at Sterling, Rodriguez, and Banks, Arthur seriously doubts the firm would be very happy if he got himself arrested over Eames.

He spots Yusuf standing just outside the courtroom, hissing covertly to someone on his phone. He motions at Arthur to give him a moment, and Arthur does so patiently, watching as Yusuf scribbles something in illegible shorthand into his moleskine. That’s enough to make him frown a little. Yusuf only ever writes in his own indecipherable code when it’s something important, usually something that could make or break a case.

“What?” asks Arthur as soon as the call ends.

“Nothing,” says Yusuf, which is what Yusuf always says when he actually has something. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yusuf,” begins Arthur, but Yusuf shakes his head at him.

“You talk to Eames?” he asks, and Arthur hesitates, because he hates being diverted and because he’s still not entirely sure yet what to do about the whole Eames situation. He doesn’t ever know what to do about Eames, really.

“Yeah,” Arthur says finally. “Why? Is this about Eames?”

Yusuf waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says again. “Just do whatever you can to destroy his credibility.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, lips pressing together. “I know how this goes.”

“Okay,” says Yusuf, no longer listening. “Excellent. Meet me at the morgue later. Whenever you’re finished here.”

“You’re not staying?”

“No,” answers Yusuf with a quizzical look. “I’ve got better things to do.” Which of course, Arthur can translate into “We’ve got holes in our case, and I have to get rid of them.”

“Fine,” says Arthur. “Later, then.”

“I’ll text you,” Yusuf says, just as various reporters begin to filter into the courthouse, clutching eagerly at their notepads and fiddling with their pens. “Good luck.”

Arthur nods, and they step apart, Yusuf going off to wherever he needs to be and Arthur slipping quietly into the designated courtroom. He’s a little surprised to see that Saito is already there. It’s barely 8:30, and the trial isn’t to reconvene until 9. Arthur himself likes to be early, to avoid rush hour at the security line, but he’s never had a client show up before him. He usually advises clients to arrive ten to fifteen minutes before the start of the trial, so the jury can see them, nervous and perhaps a little bit desperate, and hopefully be more sympathetic.

“Good morning, Mr. Saito,” he says, a little curiously as he approaches the defense’s table.

“Ah, Arthur,” greets Saito. “Good morning.”

Saito smiles at him, thin-lipped and exhausted, like someone who’s spent a long time getting to where he is and has everything to lose. Arthur returns his smile nervously, realizing a minute too late that this is the first time he’s ever been alone with Saito, no defense team, no prison guards. The man’s personal status alone is enough to intimidate Arthur, and sitting here in the courtroom, facing the judge’s empty seat, with the heaviness of the consequences weighing on him, Arthur can’t help but feel inordinately small.

Today, Saito is dressed in a dark grey suit that looks--not old, exactly, but worn, like it’s lived a life of its own. Arthur himself is dressed in grey pinstripes, fresh from the cleaners, and suddenly, he feels much too young. He’s thirty-two to Saito’s fifty-eight, but it’s his somehow his job to make sure that Saito doesn’t spend the rest of his days pacing a cell that’s barely larger than a hotel bathroom.

“Arthur.”

Arthur nearly jumps, so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized that Saito had been trying to get his attention. He clears his throat quickly and says, “Yes, sorry. I was just--” he makes a vague hand gesture that does very little to explain what, exactly, he was just thinking about. “Sorry,” he says again. “You were saying?”

“I just wanted to thank you,” says Saito, expression serious. “For all that you have done for me.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, a little startled, a little baffled. “No, of course, it’s my job.”

Saito nods slowly, leaning away, and Arthur has to twist around to keep eye contact. “You’re very good at it,” Saito tells him, and Arthur finds himself staring, bewildered.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Arthur says, trying to keep his tone light. “The trial isn’t over it, but yes, Mr. Saito, I am very good at my job--we all are, here--and it’s very kind of you to acknowledge that.”

Saito nods again, and that seems to be the end of that. They lapse into a comfortable silence with Saito staring straight ahead while Arthur makes a show of reviewing his notes for today when he is really thinking about how far he should let Cobb press before he can implement his plan and, hopefully, get Saito one step closer to freedom.

A few reporters try to get Arthur’s attention, but he ignores them because if he does follow through, _if_ he does, he’ll be giving them enough fodder to for at least the rest of the month, and now, rather vindictively, Arthur wants to give them one last show of cold, somber Arthur Sinclair, Esquire, before he gives himself over to their circus.

As soon as Cobb enters the room, the reporters immediately shift their attention to him, and Cobb, being the charming bastard he is, obliges them while not really obliging them at all. Arthur watches him deflect, deflect, and deflect again, until the crowd is finally ready to admit defeat and leave him alone. Cobb smiles at each of them in turn and that seems to placate some of them. Arthur has no idea how he does it. Isn’t sure he’ll ever know.

Cobb catches his eye and makes his way over. “If you have a deal,” he says when he’s standing right in front of Arthur. “I’ll be a gentleman and hear it out.”

Arthur snorts loudly, and Cobb frowns. “Okay,” Arthur says. “Here’s one: drop the case.”

“Not happening,” Cobb replies automatically.

“Then I guess we’re done here.”

Cobb squints at him. “Have you thought about working at the DA’s office?” he says. “Thought more about it, I mean.”

Arthur nearly snorts again. “No,” says Arthur. “And let me save your breath for the next time you ask, _No._ ”

Cobb merely shakes his head. “We could use someone like you,” he says instead.

“So find someone like me,” Arthur counters.

Cobb’s frown deepens, and he looks as though he wants to say something else, but just then, the rest of Arthur’s team arrives, and Cobb silently retreats back to the prosecution’s table, but not without shooting Arthur a meaningful look that spelled out “T-H-I-N-K A-B-O-U-T I-T” in gigantic capital letters followed by lots of exclamation points.

“What was that about?” asks Tadashi curiously.

Arthur shrugs. “No idea,” he says and stands up just as Judge Wagner enters the room.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Clarence Wagner,” calls one of the guards.

They stand until the judge motions for everyone to sit.

“Let’s get right down to business then, shall we?” he says. He nods at Cobb. “Call your first witness.”

First up is the maid who found the body. She describes the not quite routine morning and how she found her employer in the kitchen in a pool of her own blood, and well, there’s not much Arthur can do about that. Next, the detective on the case is called. Here, Arthur is in his element, and he deftly, coolly, cuts through standard police procedure and the standard errors that occur.

“So you don’t have a witness?” he asks.

Detective Walters sets his jaw. “No.”

“And no conclusive evidence?”

“There were fingerprints on the murder weapon belonging to Mr. Saito.”

Arthur smiles coldly. “Yes, that’s very strange, isn’t it? Mr. Saito’s fingerprints on his own kitchen knife. You know whose fingerprints were also on the knife, Detective? Mrs. Saito’s, as well as the chef.”

The detective glares at him.

“No further questions,” Arthur says smoothly.

Finally, Cobb calls in Eames.

Arthur looks around. He hadn’t noticed Eames come in, but there he is, striding towards the stand in a sleek black suit that fits him nicely. He doesn’t look at Arthur as he passed, but it’s not like Arthur expected him to. Instead, Arthur watches as Cobb buttons up his jacket and Eames gets sworn in, one hand on the Bible the other raised, as he promises to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help him God.

Cobb covers the basics, what Eames does (“I’m a weapons expert, which is just a fancy way of saying I’m a physicist who’s obsessed with velocity.”), why Eames’ testimony should be trusted (“I studied at Cambridge, and I once did a stint on Deadliest Warrior.”), and Arthur has already heard this more than once that he doesn’t even bother paying attention until Cobb starts asking Eames about the crime scene.

It’s innocuous at first, stuff along the lines of “What did you do with the evidence?”

And, because Arthur’s waiting for it: “What were your conclusions?”

Arthur is on his feet before Cobb even finishes speaking. “Objection,” says Arthur.

Cobb blinks. “On what grounds?” he says, incredulous.

“Yes,” says Judge Wagner coolly. “Enlighten us, Mr. Sinclair. On what grounds?”

Arthur takes a breath. “On the account that the witness is emotionally compromised.”

There’s silence; Cobb looks as though he’s been slapped in the face, and Eames--well, Eames glares at him stonily, but Arthur’s seen that expression enough times to know that there’s no heat behind it.

Finally, the judge says, “I think the court would appreciate it if you would elaborate, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Yes,” says Cobb doggedly, looking slightly flushed. “We would.”

Arthur straightens his tie. “Mr. Eames and I have been involved in a relationship for the last three years, and I ended it last night. He was angry with me, and therefore, makes him emotionally compromised and an uncredible witness.”

Eames flushes. “I am not emotionally compromised!” he shouts.

“He’s an expert witness!” shouts Cobb. “His relationship status with you has no bearing on his testimony!”

“It does when it could affect my case!” shouts Arthur, and it all pretty much devolves from there.

 

 

 **OHNOTHEYDIDN’T**  
I FUCKING CALLED THIS SHIT  
by kafkan

 

> In a twist no one but daytime soap opera fans could have predicted, Arthur Sinclair came out in court today. Literally. During the expert testimony of weapons specialist Mr. Eames, **Sinclair announced that he and Mr. Eames had been involved in a relationship for the past three years, thereby rendering Eames’ testimony inadmissable.** When asked, Sinclair said that it would have been unfair to the case to allow prejudice to cloud the facts. “The prosecution are having a hard enough time as it is,” he said. “Having the advantage of the nation’s best ballistics expert would just be cruel.”

> ( [“IRRELEVANT INFORMATION NOT PERTAINING TO ARTHUR & EAMES AND THEIR HOT GAY LOVE UNDER THIS POINTLESS HOT MESS OF A CUT.”](http://arthurshotmess.com) )

> [S-O-U-R-C-E](http://phenylic.livejournal.com)
> 
> (WHAT DID I SAY. WHAT DID I SAY.WHERE THE FUCK IS .)

 

 

“Nice,” says Yusuf, as they make their way down to the morgue. “They’ll be talking about this for weeks.”

Arthur grunts. It had been chaotic, to say the least. The courtroom had exploded into pandemonium once the judge had ordered them to take a recess and get their shit together. “This courtroom is not the Jerry Springer Show,” he’d shouted before banging on his gavel.

Then there was the media. The frenzy that followed had been probably been worse than coming out on national television. _What kind of relationship exactly? How long have you known each other? Were you friends first? How did you meet? Did anyone else know?_ Eames’ sister hadn’t even grilled him that thoroughly, and he’d actually felt obligated to answer her.

He’d left the courthouse feeling dizzy and just a little nauseous. Cobb had followed him all the way to his car, yelling about how that was such a low blow and how he should have Arthur arrested for obstruction of justice.

“My whole job is to obstruct your justice,” Arthur had shouted back, very nearly slamming his car door shut on Cobb’s fingers.

“I know what you’re doing!” Cobb yelled.

“Okay!” yelled Arthur. “Take it up with the judge!”

Arthur had no doubt that Cobb would actually try to take it up with the judge, but he hadn’t exactly done anything wrong, technically, so it’s not like Cobb could actually carry through with his threats. Anyway, he had more pressing matters at hand.

“She was poisoned,” says Yusuf.

“What,” says Arthur.

Yusuf nods. “I had a friend at the lab run the tests. It was arsenic.”

Arthur lets loose a frustrated groan. “Oh, this just keeps getting better,” he says flatly. “How did this get missed?”

“Arsenic’s not exactly on your standard drug test,” says Yusuf with a shrug.

“Do we know how she was poisoned?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “Just that it was ingested,” he says. “Most likely it was in her water.”

Arthur rubs at his temples. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, anything else?”

“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?” says Yusuf pointedly.

Arthur looks at him.

“Okay, no,” admits Yusuf. “I was just waiting on the tox report. Thought it’d have taken longer.”

“How did you know?” Arthur asks.

“A hunch,” says Yusuf. “You know how Eames said her wounds were all defensive? Well, she wasn’t exactly weak. She had a fairly athletic build and was healthy, except for the whole being dead issue. She would’ve fought. Since she didn’t, I figured it might have been because she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”

“So, you had the body exhumed?” asks Arthur, a little surprised.

“What?” says Yusuf. “No, of course not. Couldn’t have, anyway, she was cremated, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“There were some skin samples left that weren’t totally degraded.” Yusuf frowns. “Everything makes a little more sense now, doesn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Her bruises,” says Yusuf. “The examiner said she had a lot of bruises all over her body, but that they weren’t from the struggle because some of them were at least a few days old.. The police said it was because Saito beat her, but I think it’s because of the poisoning.” At Arthur’s confused look, he adds, “Oh, right, she was poisoned over time. At least a month or so, by the looks of it. Anyway, arsenic poisoning causes vitamin A deficiency, and vitamin A deficiency can give you night blindness.

“I think she got those bruises the way most people do--by accident. Banging into things and the lot. It would explain the location of the bruises, too. She had them on the side of her hips, above her knees, on her shins. That’s my theory, anyway.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, following as best he can. “But where does the arsenic come from? It’s not exactly something you can buy while you’re at Target.”

“Black market,” replies Yusuf. “Ebay, Craigslist. Anyone could probably buy it, if they knew what to look for.”

“And what would they be looking for?” asks Arthur.

Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “How would I know?” he says. “I don’t buy arsenic.”

Arthur doesn’t smile. “And Cobb’s going to get copies of this?”

“Of course.”

Arthur grimaces. “Okay. We need to talk to Saito.”

 

↔

 

“Mr. Saito,” says Arthur smoothly, extending his hand as he and Yusuf are led into Saito’s study. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

Saito shakes it with a clap to his shoulder. “Mr. Sinclair,” he says, motioning for them to sit. “Mr. Nahir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We just wanted to go over a few details with you,” Yusuf says. “You heard about the new evidence?”

Saito nods, face grim. “Yes,” he says. “I did hear about that. I can’t believe someone would do that to Kyoko.”

“Right,” says Yusuf. “Do you know anyone who would have access to arsenic?”

“No,” Saito says. “I don’t believe so.”

“Okay,” says Yusuf. “Do you have access to arsenic?”

Arthur does not flinch, but it is a very near thing.

“No,” says Saito, sounding amused. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Yusuf nods, and Arthur lets out a tiny breath.

“Hypothetically speaking then,” says Yusuf. “What would you do to get access to arsenic?”

Arthur sighs inwardly and prays that Yusuf can crank up the charm and get them their answers without getting them fired. He knows he should have a little more faith in Yusuf’s abilities, but he’s always been jumpy when it comes to the wealthier clients who can afford to fire them and find some other firm who is just as good.

“Hypothetically speaking?” Saito says, still with a tone of amusement. “Hypothetically speaking, I would say there are too many variables to take into account. The illegality of it, for one.”

“Fair enough,” says Yusuf breezily, flipping through his notebook. “And who came into contact with your wife on a regular basis?”

“How regular?”

“Daily, I would say.”

Saito takes a moment to think. “The maids,” he says. “Our kitchen staff. Her driver. Myself. Our daughters. But, I assure you,” he adds, an edge to his voice now. “No one here would have wanted to harm Kyoko.”

Yusuf nods. “Thank you,” he says. “Just one last question, Mr. Saito: did you kill her?”

While Arthur had expected it, it didn’t make hearing the question voiced aloud any easier.

Saito looks at them both with a level stare. “I did not kill my wife,” he says, carefully enunciating each syllable.

They excuse themselves after that, and Saito shows them out to the main hall.

“Thank you for your fine work, gentlemen,” he says, shaking each of their hands in turn. “I needn’t have worried.”

He says it sincerely, but something about it leaves Arthur feeling unsettled.

He lets Yusuf drive, because he’s had a long day, and he spends the hour’s drive back to the firm staring out the window, deep in thought. The way Saito had spoken to them had just been so final, so sure, like there wasn’t anything left for him to worry about. Which, okay, he wasn’t _supposed_ to be worrying, because worrying would mean he wasn’t confident, and lawyers could smell low confidence like sharks can smell blood. And Arthur _was_ confident.

And yet.

“That’s yours,” Yusuf says, interrupting his thoughts.

Arthur blinks, coming back to himself, and feels around his pockets for his buzzing phone. He pulls it out and is informed of a new text from Eames.

_Have been paid for my expertise. Free for dinner?_

Arthur stares, and suddenly, nothing exists except for him and that seemingly innocent four-letter word. Everything is white noise, and Arthur replays every moment that’s led up to this; he sees the judge granting the re-trial, evidence being overturned, motions granted, Saito saying he shouldn’t have worried. It’s all there, all laid out in Cobb’s simmering fury, Eames’ indifference, Yusuf’s nonchalance. He hasn’t felt this naive since law school, when he believed that the U.S. had a fair and just judicial system, that everyone played by the rules, and that in the courtroom, logic trumped emotion every time.

Now he feels that sense of betrayal, of cynical, jaded bitterness that bites at his throat, mocking him for his obliviousness, his idiocy. It’s that sense of disgust that comes from the realization that only the rich can afford to play fair; that there are rules, but the goal of the game is to slip around them; that in the courtroom, with a jury of your peers, logic has very little to do with anything.

Slowly, he turns. “Yusuf,” he says, menancingly quiet. “We need to talk.”

“Oh boy,” mutters Yusuf, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

As soon as they get to his office, Arthur sits down. “Did you know?” he asks, burying his face his hands, voice dangerous. “Mother _fucker_ , Yusuf, did you know?”

Yusuf frowns, unapologetic. “Specificity, please,” he says, and Arthur grits his teeth, leveling him with a glare.

“Did someone tell you about the bribery,” he very nearly snarls. Yusuf, to his credit, isn’t fazed in the least.

“No,” says Yusuf, but he also gives Arthur a very unimpressed look which only makes Arthur angrier.

“But you knew!” Arthur shouts. “You knew about this!”

“Well, of course, I _knew_ ,” Yusuf counters. “It wasn’t rocket science!”

“I didn’t know!” shouts Arthur. “I thought I was winning the case!”

“You are winning the case!”

Arthur inhales sharply through his nose and rubs at his temple. “That’s not the point,” he says roughly. “That’s not how I _should_ be winning.”

“So?” says Yusuf. “We’re not caught up in it. We’re just their puppets, and we’re their very well-paid, ignorant puppets. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and by the end of the week, we’ll be done with it.”

Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “You’re okay with this? You’re seriously okay with this?”

“No!” exclaims Yusuf, looking very affronted. “Of course not, Jesus. I won’t be okay until this is over, and the bank clears my check.”

“And how do you know you’ll get paid if you aren’t even supposed to know about this!” says Arthur, accusingly, voice rising again.

“ _We_ ,” hisses Yusuf. “ _We_ are going to get paid nice little bonuses at the end of our fabulous work, and we’re going to take it, because we like being appreciated. Well,” he amends, seeing the look on Arthur’s face. “I’m going to take mine, and you can give me yours if you don’t want it.”

“This is bribery!” yells Arthur.

“Only if we know it’s happening!” yells Yusuf. “ _Which we don’t_.”

“This is illegal!” he shouts. “You have to report this!”

“I’m not reporting anything!” shouts Yusuf. “If Saito can buy off one of the best judges in the city, what is he going to do to me when he finds out I reported him? Which, by the way, I won’t do, because _I haven’t seen anything._ ”

“I can’t believe this,” Arthur says, running both his hands through his hair. “I can’t fucking believe this bullshit.”

“Oh, don’t be so naive, Arthur,” says Yusuf. “You know it happens. It happens all the time.”

Arthur brings his hands down to his face, his nails digging into his cheeks, and he stares at Yusuf, knowing he should say something, because that isn’t true. It isn’t. Not completely.

“Not to us,” Arthur argues stubbornly. “I could get disbarred. _We_ could get arrested.”

Yusuf scoffs. “No,” he says evenly, eyes flashing. “We have no concrete proof--what, you think Saito’s drawn up contracts? _I hereby acknowledge to grant Mr. Saito freedom in exchange for things of monetary value._ Everything is circumstantial because where you’re bloody paranoid, so is everyone else.”

“Mother _fuck_ ,” Arthur swears. He suddenly, very desperately, wants a smoke, or a drink, or a goddamn Xanax. “So he killed her then?” he asks. “He did it?”

“I don’t know!” says Yusuf. “He said he didn’t do it, but the evidence all points to him! Who knows!”

“We should know,” snaps Arthur. “It’s not a hard question! Is he guilty or not? Yes or no? Jesus Christ, we’re smarter than him--don’t give me that look, we are, okay? We are--how can he make this so fucking hard?”

“Because,” says Yusuf, forever unruffled. “If he were cleverer, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Arthur has to concede the point. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, desperately wishing that this could just all be over. “So you’re sure we’re safe?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes,” says Yusuf. “We’re expendable. _If_ anything is happening, it’s all above us, or rather, outside us, considering we’re on his side.”

“Judge Wagner,” Arthur says bitterly.

“Among others,” says Yusuf.

Arthur’s eyes flash. “Eames?”

“I don’t think so,” Yusuf says honestly. “Eames is an independent contract, but since he’s getting his sources from the DA, I wouldn’t be surprised if--”

Arthur snorts because seriously, that’s hilarious. “Cobb is not taking bribes,” he says firmly.

“I didn’t say he was,” Yusuf says patiently. “There are plenty of people above Cobb who _would_ take bribes. Anyway, you heard Eames, if there’s no evidence, there’s no case.”

“What, Nash?” asks Arthur.

Yusuf shrugs.

“ _Nash?_ ” Arthur repeats. “What the fuck?”

“You’re speculating,” notes Yusuf.

“Oh God,” says Arthur. “Saito really is a genius. Fuck. Get to Nash, and he doesn’t even have to touch anyone else. He literally destroys the case.”

“Mm,” hums Yusuf, non-committal. “Now if you’re done yelling, I’m going home.”

“Fine,” says Arthur, waving him off, rubbing at his face and scowling. “I’ll see you later.” He sighs, exhausted, and pulls out his phone, thumbing at the screen absent-mindedly.

 _i’m starving,_ he types.

The reply is immediate. _oddly enough, so am i. come over. lucky for you i made too much._

Arthur smiles, reflexive, and gathers his things.

 

↔

 

It takes Arthur a little over half an hour to make it to Eames’ place, partly because traffic is always shit in this city, no matter what the time, and partly because he takes a detour to BevMo! to pick up a bottle of Eames’ favorite cheap wine.

In the time it takes Eames to answer the door, Arthur sniffs curiously at the air and identifies garlic and chicken, which automatically makes his mouth water and his stomach to growl loudly. “Are you making grilled chicken?” he asks hopefully, in lieu of greeting.

“Yes,” says Eames, grinning. “Is that wine?”

“Of course,” says Arthur, quirking his lips. “I want to talk, by the way.”

“Right,” Eames says. “So do I, but let’s eat first.”

Arthur’s stomach growls. “Sorry,” says Arthur insincerely. Eames gestures for him to come inside, so Arthur does, toeing off his shoes before following Eames into the kitchen.

There is indeed grilled chicken, and one plate of it is generously smothered in roasted garlic and creamy mushroom sauce. Arthur immediately takes it and retrieves a clean fork.

“God,” says Arthur. “This is amazing.”

Eames smirks at him as he leans against the counter, spearing a potato and chewing it with much less ravenous fervor.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve actually had something that wasn’t take-out and didn’t give me the runs?” Arthur says, not bothering to chew with his mouth closed.

“Can’t be any longer since you last had sex,” Eames answers mildly.

“You sound confident,” says Arthur. “Let’s not forgot that I only married you out of pity.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “Let’s see,” he says. “The only person you spend inordinate amounts of time with is Yusuf, and unfortunately, darling, I think that if he was looking for a lay, he’d have more options to choose from than just you.”

Arthur is willing to concede that point because he’s never been able to pinpoint exactly where Yusuf goes off to or what he does once the sun goes down. “You never know,” he says instead. “I could be getting hot and heavy with Cobb.”

Eames squints at him.

Arthur shrugs. “It could happen. He’s not terrible-looking.”

“Your standards,” says Eames. “It’s a wonder I ever settled for you.”

“Right?” says Arthur through a mouthful of chicken. “At least I get to say I married an Englishman. What’s in it for you? Besides the citizenship, I mean.”

“That I married a lawyer,” Eames replies deftly. “And I don’t even need a maths degree to know that puts me pretty high up there in your American social class.”

“What social class,” says Arthur. “We think Real Housewives is classy.”

Eames pours himself a glass of wine and takes a long drink.

“Ha,” says Arthur.

“I could never be a Real Housewife, anyway,” says Eames. “You didn’t give me a big enough house. Or good enough car.”

“Or an allowance,” says Arthur. “Besides, you made more than me last year.”

“That’s very true,” agrees Eames. “But you know me, I just want to be pampered and taken care of.”

Arthur nearly snorts a mushroom. “I’m the one who put myself through three years of law school and summer internships. I’m the one who deserves to be pampered and taken care of.”

“That’s very true, too,” Eames says, casual enough to make Arthur look up and raise an eyebrow. “What?” says Eames. “I can’t be concerned for my darling betrothed who works himself to the bone and doesn’t come home at night for weeks at a time?”

“Not when you say it like that,” says Arthur, deadpan. “By the way,” he adds conversationally. “Is Saito bribing you?”

Eames pauses. “Is that what you wanted talk about?” he asks.

“No,” says Arthur. “Well, yes, partly, but not mainly.”

Eames sets down his fork and smiles, rueful. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “I’ve not had the honor of being bribed by Saito.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, popping the last potato into his mouth. “Would you? If he did?”

“Are we speaking hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Eames shrugs. “I don’t know if you want the answer to that,” he says calmly.

“Fair enough, I guess,” Arthur concedes. “So you knew.”

Eames shrugs again. “I had suspicions, more or less.”

“Funny,” says Arthur. “That’s what Yusuf said.”

“Yusuf said he had suspicions?”

“Not exactly,” answers Arthur. “But close enough.”

“Ah,” hums Eames, and eats the last of his chicken. Wordlessly, Arthur holds out a hand for the plate, and Eames gives it to him. He says something about dessert, which Arthur agrees to, because Arthur’s never been picky about free food, especially not when someone is willing to make it for him.

He gives the dishes a quick wash, rinses Eames’ wine glass, and leaves everything to dry on a Hello Kitty dish towel. Eames comes over and sets down a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and Arthur grabs the spoons.

“I think I should work at the DA’s office,” Arthur says finally.

Eames is quiet. It would be a thoughtful pause to anyone else, but not to Arthur. Not when Arthur knows him too well.

“You don’t think I should,” Arthur says for him. He frowns, recalling their previous conversation. “I thought you wanted me to.”

“No,” says Eames. “I think you should do whatever’ll make you happy, but I don’t think the DA’s office will do that.”

“And what do you think the DA’s office will do?”

“I think that you’ll like it there, at least for the first few months--year, maybe--but then you’ll realize there’s just as much corruption there as there is everywhere else.”

He catches the look on Arthur’s face and quickly adds, “Oh, not this kind of corruption. I mean like, politically.” He frowns. “Look, I’ve worked with the DA enough times to know that in this city, you work for the State for two reasons: one, because you actually believe you’re carrying out justice--and even this can go two ways: you do it because you actually think you’re carrying out justice, or you’re actually a psychopath who’s trying to channel his charismatic powers for good because that’s what society wants for you--or you have some kind of political agenda.”

“Cobb thinks he’s carrying out justice,” says Arthur.

“I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath,” Eames says.

Arthur snorts. “Cobb is not a psychopath.”

“Oh no,” says Eames seriously. “I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath. He’s also a psychopath who wants to be governor, and the scariest part is, he might actually make it.”

“Oh my God,” says Arthur. “We’re not talking about this.”

“What did he say to you when he asked you to come work for him?” asks Eames. “He gave you a spiel, didn’t he? He told you that there was nothing better than seeing justice be served, that you can’t compare the feeling of hearing the ‘guilty’ verdict to anything you’ve ever felt before. Oh, no, let me guess, he said, it feels like you’re waiting for a train, and--”

“You don’t know where that train will take you,” continues Arthur. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re the one who’s taking it there.”

Eames grins, and Arthur can’t help but smile.

“You don’t actually think he’s a psychopath,” he says.

“No,” agrees Eames. “He’s a bit touched in the head, but virtually harmless.”

“But,” says Arthur, growing serious again. “You don’t think I should be working for the DA.”

Eames leans back in his chair, looks Arthur straight in the eye and says, “I think you should do what you want because you’ve made a well thought out decision, not because you’re running high on adrenaline and anger.”

“I’m not angry,” says Arthur.

“Yes, darling,” sighs Eames. “Yes, you are. You think you’ve been wronged, that some great injustice has been to your person, and you’re probably right. You’ve been lied to and played like a fiddle, but you can’t let that influence you.”

“But you just said it! I’ve been wronged and lied to, and how can I keep working for them if I can’t even trust them?”

“Because you’ve also helped people,” Eames says patiently. “Like the pharmaceutical case last year, how many lives did you save by forcing the company to stop production?”

“That was different,” Arthur says.

“No,” says Eames. “It wasn’t. Just because they used their pills and not a knife or a gun doesn’t make them innocent.”

“They didn’t kill the patients.”

“No,” says Eames. “They just caused the liver failure that did. Isn’t that what you argued? Isn’t that how you won?”

Arthur closes his eyes, because yes, that’s exactly how it went. All the arguments forming in Arthur’s head are the same arguments that the company’s lawyers had thrown at Arthur, and Arthur had ripped them to shreds.

“I’m not saying what happened was fair,” he hears Eames say. “But the law’s never really been very fair. It all comes down to how much money you have, and how good your lawyer is. It just happens that Saito has a lot of money.”

Arthur looks at him. “So you’re saying I’m not a good lawyer.”

“Oh, Arthur, my dearest heart,” he says, shaking his head with a badly concealed smile. “You’re the absolute worst.”

 

↔

 

Arthur and Eames have a bit of a complicated history.

Actually, it’s no more complex than it is boring, and in Arthur’s opinion, a little bit (a lot) embarassing.

They’d met online.

On ChristianMingle.

Yeah. Arthur wasn’t very pleased with their limited options either. Apparently, it didn’t matter he was a Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian--that was perfectly okay--but he couldn’t be a gay Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian.

In Arthur’s defense, he’d signed on because Yusuf had bet him he wouldn’t. Somewhere, between the tedious Q&A for his profile and the pending collection of $100, Arthur had actually decided that, mathematically, his chances of finding someone just as bored and/or easily swayed by stupid bets were not only possible, but also probable.

Who knew listing yourself as a crisis manager interested in women, smoked and drank occasionally, and only attended service on special-- _very_ special--occasions would match him to an art teacher interested in men from Pocatello, who smoked frequently, drank occasionally, and attend service several times a year.

A match who looked nothing like her profile picture, who was definitely not from Pocatello, and whose church attendance could only be charitably described as “rarely.”

“I was bored,” Eames will say honestly, when asked. He’ll shrug, self-deprecating. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Needless to say, when Arthur had gotten around to meeting this art teacher from Pocatello, he was far from impressed.

“You don’t look anything like an Amy,” Arthur had said, eyeing Eames’ bright pink scarf with a mix of fear and exasperation.

“How odd,” Eames had commented, in a voice that sounded nothing like an art teacher from Pocatello’s. “You don’t look anything like a Simon.”

That had been a pretty accurate indicator of how the rest of their illicit relationship went.

 

↔

 

“What do you think I should do?” Arthur asks, sucking the last drops of ice cream off his spoon.

Eames shrugs, his spoon mostly untouched. “I think you should go to bed, and then you’ll wake up half an hour after your alarm’s gone off, and then you’ll have forgotten that you slept here instead of at your apartment so you’ll take your sweet time getting ready until I tell you your coffee’s getting cold and traffic’s going to be hell.” Eames scratches his chin absently, and Arthur sinks lower in his seat, suddenly sleepy. “You’ll dash out, drive like a maniac and miraculously avoid a speeding ticket. You’ll get into work; you’ll prep for court; you’ll be a lawyer, and then--and then, you’ll realize you love your job, even if you hate the things you have to do. You’re going to head back to the office, and Rodriguez is going to come by, because he still thinks you’re young and bright-eyed and ready to please the world, and he’ll tell you to take a break, and you’ll say, ‘That sounds fantastic. Thank you, sir.’ and you’ll come home--no, you’ll come _home_ \--and we’ll go to Thailand, and you’ll waste away a week going to temples for religions you don’t understand, and then we’ll actually start _exploring_ Bangkok, and then we’ll come home, renew our vows, and go on with our lives.”

Arthur smiles softly, content with good food and Eames’ soothing voice. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That sounds like a plan.” He means to just rest his eyes for a bit, but when he blinks them open again, the pint of ice cream is gone, as is his spoon. Instead, Eames is leaning over him, brush a hand against Arthur’s cheek.

“Come on,” he says with a gentle tug. “Let’s get to bed, yeah?”

Arthur follows him into the bedroom, so familiar and yet not. He can’t remember the last time he had the opportunity to actually be home, so he lets Eames unbutton his shirt, remove his cufflinks, and put on a worn t-shirt. He steps out of his pants, and Eames folds them for him, placing them on top of the dresser.

Arthur climbs into their bed and presses his face into the pillows, breathing in the scent of Tide and faint traces of Eames’ aftershave. He feels Eames sliding in behind him, feels the warm weight of Eames’ arm wrap around his waist, feels Eames’ breath on his neck, and thinks, _home. Finally._

It’s been at least six months since Arthur last had a good night’s sleep, and when Eames leans over, and kisses his jaw, Arthur finds his hand and squeezes it. “Good night,” he breathes, already half-gone.

He still hears Eames chuckle, feels himself being pulled closer. “Sweet dreams, Arthur,” promises Eames, and Arthur sleeps.

 

 

**ONTD_POLITICAL**

DUN DUN DUN!!  
by lushfucks

 

> The jury is in, and Saito is out. Out free.

> ( [FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO LIVE UNDER A ROCK, HERE IS A HELPFUL RECAP.](http://thisisarock) )

> [SOURCE SOURCE SOURCE](http://eames-arthur.livejournal.com)
> 
> (I was going to title this I’M A FREE BITCH BABY but.)

 

 

 

** epilogue **

**  
**

In the three months following the Saito case, Arthur parts with a sizable chunk of his savings account, but he makes equity partner; Rodriguez does in fact make him take time off, but not before the firm throws a huge party in celebration of the acquittal. All the partners congratulate him on his performance, and many of the younger associates go starry-eyed when they make him re-tell everything that went down inside the courthouse.

“That’s genius,” someone says, as everyone murmurs in agreement. Arthur purses his lips and sips his champagne. It had been clever, sure, but he had no idea how well it had actually worked, considering Saito had taken matters into his own hands. Arthur will never know how the case would have turned out if they had fought fair.

Even the other two name partners show up, both old and grey-haired and talking louder than anyone. “You see!” bellows Sterling, clapping an arm around Arthur. “I’ve been telling you from the beginning, we’ve got a great lawyer here.”

“Shut up!” shouts Banks as she takes a flute of champagne. “I can hear you just fine!”

Rodriguez, fortunately, comes by just in time and rescues Arthur from getting his eardrums blown out. “Jesus,” says Rodriguez, pulling a face at him. “I can’t wait to find a new name partner. Also, we managed to get the Accutane lawsuit--you know, that acne treatment that caused liver damage and vision problems--I’d like to put you in charge of that.”

Arthur bites back a smile and says nothing. Rodriguez had been disappointed when Arthur said that he would like to stay away from any future cases that may involve Saito, but he’d gotten over it quickly enough. “Just something to think about when you get back,,” Rodriguez says, thumping him on the back. “Where did you say you were going again? Tahiti?”

“Thailand,” corrects Arthur.

“Bangkok is gorgeous,” he says emphatically. “You and Eames enjoy yourselves now.” Serious, now, he adds, “Really. Take as much time as you want. I know you haven’t taken a vacation in years.”

Arthur shrugs. “I love my work,” he says, and Rodriguez laughs.

Yusuf is also at the party, and when he spots Arthur, he raises his glass as a toast and presses his lips together, and Arthur shrugs and raises his glass back. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay with what he knows. There’s definitely no physical proof to the accusations, and if he’s honest, Arthur is much more bothered by the fact they still haven’t figured out with certainty, who, exactly, murdered Kyoko.

Anyone could have had access to the knife. Sure, the only fingerprints on it were Kyoko’s, the chef’s and Saito’s, but gloves aren’t a rare accessory. They also can’t prove that Saito bought the arsenic, and even if they could, there’s no way they could say that it was used specifically to poison his wife. Proculus Global boasts an impressive science division, and any good lawyer can easily argue that arsenic was obtained for research purposes.

Also, for a man who has his own security personnel, there weren’t any security cameras installed in the house. Suspicious, maybe, but at the time, the family had just moved in. It’s not far-fetched to assume that Saito simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet. After all, the man _did_ have his own bodyguards.

There are so many pieces and holes to the case that just doesn’t sit well with Arthur. He likes things with a neat conclusion, and the Saito case had anything but.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” says Yusuf, who has finally made his way over. “Now that you’re equity partner, it’s time to stop worrying about what your clients did and more about how much you can charge them.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Time to learn the business aspect of law.”

Yusuf dismisses that with a snort. “The only thing you need to know is that if they can afford it, charge it.”

Arthur’s lip twitches.

“Besides,” adds Yusuf. “When the firm is making money, the name partners are happy. When the name partners are happy, I can ask for a raise. When I get a raise, I can buy things like groceries and hand guns. So you see, what’s really happening here is a modern day Robin Hood. You take from the rich and give it to those who need it, like me. It’s very noble of you.”

Arthur can’t help it. He laughs. “You can ask for a raise whenever, Yusuf. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what an asset you are to the firm. Feigned ignorance is unbecoming on you.”

“It’s a very delicate process!” Yusuf protests. “You’re equity partner, you wouldn’t understand. Go on your vacation and enjoy your first-class seats and five-star hotels and the sexy masseuses at those hotels. Spend all your money. Buy something nice for yourself.”

“I’ll be back in three weeks, Yusuf,” says Arthur, grinning.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yusuf sniffs. “It’s not like you’re needed.”

“I’ll send you a postcard,” Arthur promises.

“I’ll be sure to bully the mailboy everyday until it arrives,” says Yusuf. Then, very serious, he adds, “I mean it, Arthur. Enjoy yourself. You and Eames both deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says sincerely. “I’m sure we will.”

 

In Bangkok, the humidity makes Arthur sweat in places he didn’t even know sweat glands existed. Both he and Eames give up on jeans the moment they arrive, and instead, they spend the rest of their  
trip in khaki shorts and sandals. Arthur doesn’t mind. It reminds him of his pre-law days at home in El Segundo, spending summer after summer practically living at the beach.

Arthur does end up exploring whatever temples he can find, and Eames follows him without complaint. He doesn’t understand a word of what the helpful locals say, but he nods and smiles and thanks them anyway.

He gets a tan, and Eames gets tanner, and in the midst of everything--the exploring, the relaxation, and the unrelenting heat--Arthur still finds time to reacquaint himself with Eames, with his habits, his hands, and his hello-good-morning-why-don’t-you-come-back-to-bed-darling.

He reacquaints himself with his simple gold wedding band, with waking up half on top of Eames’ chest, with slow kisses and the warmth of Eames’ skin. He relearns the curve of Eames’ lips, the lines of his tattoos, and the rumble of his sleep-affected voice.

He studies Eames meticulously and a little desperately, like he’s afraid that if he blinks, he’ll lose it all again. (And he is. Afraid, that is. Afraid that one day, they’re going to come back together, and they won’t be able to sync up again. Afraid that one day, Eames is going to realize that there is someone out there who doesn’t put work first, who could probably count on one hand the number of times he stayed late at the office, who takes time off for birthdays and holidays. Someday, says a small voice in the back of Arthur’s head, Eames is going to realize that other people exist.)

Arthur loses an inexplicable amount of time in kissing Eames and every part of Eames he can reach, and then he proceeds to lose even more amount in being kissed and touched and loved so wholly and undeniably that it hurts. He lets Eames take him to the parks and the markets and the outdoor Patravadi Theatre where he takes Eames’ hand and doesn’t let go, not even when their palms are slippery with sweat, and Eames just grins at him, open and honest, and says, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Arthur says and kisses him, right there on Arunamarin Road, surrounded by tourists and locals alike with contemporary dance music playing over them and an avant-garde dance troupe entertaining the masses. He brings a hand to cup Eames’ jaw, smoothing his fingers over the day-old stubble as he presses himself closer, not caring about humid it is or how his shirt feels like it’s permanently stuck to his skin or how they’re sitting under a canopy in a park that’s listed as one of the must-sees of Thailand. He doesn’t care about anything other than the feel of Eames’ lips against his, gentle and so sweet, and he doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a fool or that Eames’ fingers are laced with his and their rings are slip-sliding against each other.

He cares that he’s happy and relaxed, and that Eames is here with him, by his side. Eames, who doesn’t care that Arthur has always put work first, who doesn’t care that Arthur forgets birthdays and anniversaries, who doesn’t care that Arthur has been in their shared home a grand total of three times in the last eighteen months, but who loves Arthur because they’re different, infinitely so, and that’s okay. Because Eames is perfectly successful in his own right and secure enough that he’s fine with Arthur staying late at the office, and if Arthur happens to work himself to the bone and forget to eat and sleep, Eames can call him and tell him to close his case files and walk himself two blocks south to the apartment they lease for these very instances.

They don’t need anniversaries or Friday night dates to be in love. They have a standing breakfast reservation at the Dearborn Starbucks and Facetime chats at odd hours and the very unsubtle instances where they make sure that they work the same case, regardless of whether it’s with or against each other.

And it’s okay if sometimes, they spend more time together puzzling out mock crime scene than they do shopping for kitchen appliances, or if they’ve clocked more hours staring at security footage than they ever will at the local movie theater.

None of that matters, Arthur realizes. As long as he and Eames are together.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” Eames says in a low voice, with a grin that makes Arthur automatically grin back.

And Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is talking about the kiss or the trip or the rings on their fingers, but he tells himself, it doesn’t matter (because, honestly, it doesn’t), and says, “Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I know nothing about Chicago except that O'Hare is mind-blowingly huge. A lot of creative license was taken with the geography, but the Starbucks on South Dearborn does exist, at least according to Google. I've also never been to Thailand, sadly. ): 
> 
> Secondly, this story wouldn't exist if Shu hadn't asked me to join her in watching The Good Wife episodes with Diane and Kurt McVeigh being BAMFs and then squeed with me about how they were so in love. Many thanks also go to Cal who assured me, halfway through, that this wasn't the worst thing ever and that the legal procedures weren't severely unreasonable. Also, to Shelby, who kindly kept me company at all hours of the morning and gave me all the encouragement I could ever ask for. Of course, Em deserves all the awards for going through the rough draft with her giant red pen and making this story actually readable. Em, I'm shit at writing odes, so instead, take [this](http://i.imgur.com/7SpLN.jpg) and [this](http://i.imgur.com/oTMl3.jpg). *mwah*
> 
> And finally, an endless amount of thanks to Jenn, who is an amazing, super patient artist, who never once complained that I was taking forever to write, and for always believing that I would definitely make the deadline. ♥! And to you, the reader, who slogged through 15k of words. You're a champ.


End file.
